Taylor Helbrass, Champion of Tzeentch
by PencilMonkeyGaiden
Summary: Much like the first Helbrass, Taylor never set out to become a Champion of Chaos; much like Pepe Le Pew, Tzeentch just refused to stop messing with her. Blessed (or cursed) with regeneration so powerful that even things nearby can come back to life, she's about to be dropped into awful situations like a spiky harem protagonist.
1. Chapter I

**Taylor Helbrass, Champion of Tzeentch**  
 _[Warhammer/Worm]_

Summary:  
Much like the first Helbrass, Taylor never set out to become a Champion of Chaos; much like Pepe Le Pew, Tzeentch just refused to stop messing with her. Blessed (or cursed) with regeneration so powerful that even things nearby can come back to life, she's about to be dropped into awful situations like a spiky harem protagonist.

TLDR: On top of being Taylor Hebert, she's inherited the power of being the ultra-Simurgh's squeezy ball. This should go swimmingly.

(Summary quoted/paraphrased from a comment made by Ian Von Doom. Cheers, Ian!)

 **THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT.**

Ducking under the sword, I tumbled clumsily to the ground, spitting out a few more swear words as I rolled over the floor; there was as much grime and litter underfoot as there was concrete in this old, abandoned warehouse.

The heavy blade made a resounding 'thunk!' noise as it rammed into a large crate, cleaving through the wood and scattering a rain of splinters over my head. Another crate, which had been resting on top of the pile that the sword had just impacted, tumbled down. It struck the floor with a loud clatter, adding to the noise levels.

"Stop following me!" I shouted, hoping that my assailant might finally listen to reason, despite the utter failure of my previous eight or nine attempts at a diplomatic resolution. "I don't want anything to do with you! Just leave me alone! If you keep following me around like that, you'll out me as a parahuman!"

The sword sighed, as it tried to tug itself free from the crate. "Listen, sweetheart," the talking piece of oversized cutlery cooed at me. "I appreciate your go-getter attitude, I really do. Wanting to stand on your own two feet, handling all life's problems yourself, come what may? That's great! You go, girl!" It gave up on its escape attempts for the moment, and tried to tilt the crate, instead. After a few seconds of wriggling, the large wooden box tipped aside, teetering for an instant on one edge, before slamming down again on top of a smaller pile of crates next to it. I was now eye-to-eye with the human skull embossed on the hilt, which seemed to be where its voice was coming from. "But seriously, it's dangerous to go alone. Take me with you!"

"Absolutely not!" I cried, folding my arms. "Where am I supposed to hide a talking, flying carving knife that's as big as a pony?! Everyone will know I've got powers! I don't want to join New Wave, and have everyone know I'm a hero. Capes wear masks for a reason!" I slumped in despair and huffed, flopping an arm behind me in a limp wave. "Not that it isn't pretty much impossible to hide my powers already... I mean, just look at this mess!"

Looking back the way I came, it still surprised me a little that the biggest changes to the warehouse within the last few minutes were not, in fact, the results of a gigantic hunk of sharp metal hurtling through the air at high speed. Instead, my mere passing had left an obvious trail in my wake - and it was still spreading.

The first time I'd noticed the green footsteps I was leaving wherever my feet touched the ground, I'd thought I must have stepped in fresh paint or something. It'd taken a few seconds to realize that the green shoe-prints were moving, wriggling with life, and made of plants. Fresh blades of grass and hardy dandelions, quickly blossoming into little yellow sunbursts of bright flower petals, were erupting from the pavement where I'd walked, thick concrete cracking like dried clay to make way.

Now that I was standing still, the wave of sprouting flora was having an even stronger effect on my immediate surroundings. The dusty piles of old abandoned shipping crates – a relic of the prosperous days of international trade, that now seemed to be firmly in Brockton Bay's past – and the warehouse wall they leaned against, were all being rapidly covered by a layer of lush vegetation. The fluttering leaves made me think of flapping bird wings, or perhaps tiny hands trying to grasp and climb. Ropey vines twirled their way upwards. It was like watching a nature documentary, where they'd filmed a plant blooming in real time, then played it back in super fast-forward.

The plants all looked incredibly wholesome and intensely green, far more gorgeous than the usual scraggly bits of plant life you might see in the city, squirming past cigarette butts and broken beer bottles at the edge of the road. Heck, even the rickety old wooden crates had started putting down roots, with new branches reaching for the sparse beams of gloomy, dirty sunshine that filtered down through the oft graffiti-coated and universally dirt-smeared glass of the skylights overhead. As it turns out, trees really do go 'vroom' when they grow.

"Don't be silly, dear," the damn talking sword interrupted my musings. Did capes muse, or just have inner monologues? "Don't let a little thing like that keep you down. The Breath of Life is a blessing! You said you wanted to be a hero, right? Well, this will all help you fight the good fight – and so will I! You and me, against all the baddies of the world! We'll take 'em to school, and give 'em a lesson they won't forget!"

I sat down heavily on a fallen crate. "School..." I hid my face in my hands. "Oh, crap on a crud-pretzel, I'm going to jail for that, aren't I? And I didn't even do anything!" I slammed a fist against the side of the crate, then yelped as several splinters in the rough wood pierced my hand. "I'm the victim here, dammit!"

"What?!" Swordy McSwordington cried. "Inconceivable! They should thank you for that! The place was a dump! Turning it into a literal urban jungle was a great and lasting service to the community."

I groaned. "Somehow, I don't think the Winslow administration are gonna feel that way. They've probably called the cops and given them my description, already." I hunched over, sucking at the side of my hand in a listless attempt at getting those damn splinters out.

The sword hummed for a moment, trying to wriggle free again. Those crates were surprisingly sturdy, though. It probably didn't help that my powers had turned the old wooden box into The Not-So-Little Shipping Crate-That-Could. It was growing at miraculous speed around the sword, broad branches trapping the blade further. There was an awful lot of creaking noises coming from the tangled mess of moving sword and crate-turned-tree, now.

I stared at my hand. "The splinter," I muttered. "It vanished, into my skin! Just... Slurp! Gone!" Frantically turning my wrist this way and that, I yanked up the sleeve of my black hoodie. "Does that mean I have a healing power, now? Some sort of weak and slightly gross regeneration? Splinter absorption? Wait, no, that'd be remotely useful, so that can't be it. Good things don't happen to me."

"Well, I don't mean to alarm you," the sword managed to say despite the vines starting to wrap around its hilt. "Since you seem to be doing such a splendid job of that, yourself. But, uh..."

I held my arm right in front of my face, scrutinizing the faint bluish tracery of my veins with fevered intensity. "W-what if those crate-trees have... Micro-stealth assassination ambush-trap killer bark, or whatever? What if that splinter is deliberately heading straight for my heart, or my brain?!"

"...If you're worried about the police, you should probably get away from those things behind ymmh. Mmfrmm! Hmf."

Turning away from the muffled mutterings of the thoroughly enveloped weapon, I looked over my shoulder. After a few seconds, I groaned.

I'd already gotten the impression that my powers didn't cause random vegetation to sprout out of nowhere, or create new types of plants. No pineapples ex nihilo, or spontaneous purple banana-melons. Instead, it accelerated the growth of whatever seeds or plants that were already within my range, however large that area might be.

Looking around the warehouse now, I noticed a pattern. Amongst the countless wild flowers and patches of grass, there was a certain type of plant that seemed to be very prolific in this abandoned old derelict warehouse. Presumably, people had used the building as a convenient hiding place, to get a bit of privacy while engaging in their hobbies. Whatever scraps and detritus they'd left behind from their... recreational urban gardening, my powers had gotten hold of, and coaxed into fresh and overwhelming bloom.

Still, it took me a few seconds to recognize the plants. I'd never seen them before in real life, but there were plenty of slackers and wannabe gang-members at Winslow with connections to the Merchants, and some of those kids were less subtle than others about advertising their interests. The shape of the leaves were fairly distinctive, and often used in logos.

"Seriously?!" I shouted at the fast-growing greenery. "Dammit! When the cops find me, they won't just arrest me for what happened at Winslow, will they?" I kicked at a crate, to little effect. "They'll charge me with running a weed farm, as well!"

"Mmf," said a voice behind me. "Hrmm nnf rhmmhmm!" Turning back to the small copse of vaguely cubic trees that had once been dusty old shipping crates, I saw that the sword was almost completely buried by branches and vines. A bit of the jewel-studded pommel still peeked out of the foliage.

An idea formed in my mind. I trotted over to the grumbling tangle of leaves, as I worked on a very straightforward plan. Careful not to cut myself on any concealed bits of sharp metal, I ripped some of the vines away from the sword.

"Oh! Thank you," the blade gasped. "Those creepers are getting too touchy-feely for my liking. It's only my hilt that's meant for gripping, y'know?"

Ignoring its grateful ramblings, I stared at the talking skull on the sword's hilt. "If I free you, will you promise to leave me alone?"

It seemed shocked at my proposal, insofar as a metal skull can express emotion at all. "What? Why would you want me to abandon you? You need my help, girl! This city ain't safe!"

"I've survived this long without you," I drawled. "I'm sure I can handle myself just fine for a while longer without giant flying stabbing implements, chasing after me in public and threatening to out me, or impale me." My ingrained politeness reared its head, briefly. "Thank you for the offer, though."

"Look," the sword said. "You really don't-"

"Alternatively," I talked right over it. "I could just walk away, and leave you to your predicament. Either way, I don't have to see you again."

The sword huffed. "I'm the mighty Windblade! Do you really think I can't free myself from a few twigs?"

I rolled my eyes. "If you could do that on your own, wouldn't you have done so by now?"

"You said you wanted to be a hero!" Mr. Windblade wailed. "What kind of hero would leave a poor, defenseless dagger-in-distress to fend for itself?!"

"Dagger? _Dagger?!_ " I planted my fists on my hips, glaring at the sword. "You're bigger than I am! And I obviously can't free you, because you'd just go right back to flying around after me in public!"

"Well, I wouldn't have to chase you, if you made me your familiar!"

I stared at it blankly. "...What?"

There was a brief impression of movement about the skull's eye sockets, as though it was blinking at me with a perplexed expression. I hadn't seen the metal cranium move before, though, even when it was talking or shouting. Heck, the skull didn't even have a lower jawbone, let alone any muscles or other moving parts; it was just decoration. More likely, some of the million-bajillion waving leaves in here must have cast a shadow that caused a whatchamacallit... Trick of the light. Or maybe all the stress and fear and frustration, and running around without getting to eat lunch, was making me hallucinate.

...Could marijuana plants affect people just by proximity? Didn't you have to smoke it, or ingest it in some way, first? ...Oh, crap! Had the flying cutlery set the warehouse on fire, somehow, and I was breathing the fumes?!

"...Uh, apprentice? Loyal servant? Um... Sidekick?" Windblade's tone of voice had been pensive; now, it turned triumphant. "Yeah, sidekick! That's the word! ...Um, sweetheart? Why are you... Are you sniffing the air?"

I tried not to blush. "...What? No! I was just... Checking if the warehouse was on fire."

Starting to make sobbing noises, the sword managed to choke out a few more sentences. "Oh, gods! Am I _smelly?!_ Is that w-why you're so adamant against having me as your sidekick? B-because I suffer from s-strong blade-y odor?!"

"You don't smell," I sighed. "I just don't need a giant medieval melee weapon in my life, right now."

"I can't help it," howled the weeping blade. "I g-get it from Uncle Kay's side of the family! He only bathes in the b-blood of his enemies!"

I frowned. "Get what? You mean, the smell you don't have? Or the fact that you're an oversized implement of carnage and bloodshed?" ...Also, how could a sword have an uncle?

"Oh, that's nice! So I'm fat, as well as stinky, am I?!" Windblade hollered. "Well, thank you so much! We can't all have the slim and slender body of a runway model or a Wood Elf Wardancer like you, you know!"

I held up my hands in a gesture that would hopefully seem placating, as well as ward off the occasional bits of splintered wood that the wriggling sword tore loose and sent flying. "Look, I'm not trying to insult you, or hurt your feelings! Really, I'm not! I just don't need a massi- ...A gargantu- ...A _well-built_ and _perfectly proportioned_ sword. If I tried to wield you in battle, I'd probably end up beheading my opponent by accident, or bifurcating them, or... Or some other gruesome outcome that starts with a B!" ...Like being beaten by my opponent due to giving myself a hernia when I tried to swing the huge damn thing.

"Really? Is that so?" Windblade said, its voice sounding like it was sneering at me. "And you couldn't just put me in a scabbard, with no sharp edges, and simply clobber your enemies into submission? Hmm? Never thought of that, did you? Ooh, no! Of course not! Because I'm obviously too _fat_ to fit in any scabbard!"

I opened my mouth to try and formulate a rebuttal, but then closed it again. That was... Not a completely terrible idea, come to think of it. I still doubted I'd be able to lift the sword, let alone wave it around in combat, but I wasn't going to point that out, right now. It'd no doubt just set off another tantrum.

All this shouting and screaming really wasn't helping matters. Even if the trail of rapid plant growth didn't clue someone in to the presence of a parahuman in the area, they could just follow the noise. If I left the sword behind, someone else might interrogate it and learn my identity, that way.

I rubbed my temples. "Will you stop crying if I free you from that mess?"

The sword sniffed. "...Maybe."

With another deep sigh, I grasped the hilt of the Windblade.

Wow, that was really lodged in there good and solid, huh? Perhaps if I nudge this tree branch to the side, and brace against this other branch for leverage, I can... Pull...

While I struggled to dislodge the huge lump of sharp metal, I registered in a distant, distracted way that the sun must have fully emerged from behind a cloud and found a skylight in the warehouse's roof to shine down through; there was a sudden illumination from above, bathing my surroundings in hues of vibrant pink, and gold, and bluish-purple.

I heard the wind pick up outside the building, too. Must have blown those clouds away, I guess. Past the noise of my own grunting and swearing, the creaking of the wooden crate, and the sword's encouraging commentary, it seemed as though the sound of the wind whistling between the warehouses outside, and rattling through holes in the walls, took on an almost alien character. Was I still hallucinating? Wind couldn't sound like a chorus of voices, droning and chanting a string of unintelligible words, could it?

And then, with a great deal of snapping wood and crunching planks, the sword came loose. I barely managed to stay upright, as the sudden lack of resistance from the now-splintered shipping crate almost made me overbalance.

Should I try to hoist the sword aloft in triumph? My arms were as brawny as two sticks of spaghetti, and all the exertion made them feel as sturdy as cooked spaghetti, at that... But it seemed so appropriate, for this moment.

Seconds later, the wind rushed through the warehouse, carrying loose leaves and discarded burger wrappers. One of the biggest marijuana leaves I'd ever seen came tumbling towards me at high speed, slapping me in the face. The surprise was enough to make me drop the sword, pinwheel my arms wildly, and fall over backwards.

At least there was loads of spontaneous vegetation to break my fall. Too bad most of the plants were stinging nettles.

 **THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT.**

A/N:  
Yet another "Taylor gets a different power" story, hooray! As it happens, there's at least three perfectly splendid reasons for this mash-up: Firstly, Aekold debuted back in '98, AFAIK, which means that he and Taylor are very nearly contemporary. Secondly, "Taylor Hebert" and "Aekold Helbrass" are phonetically similar, sort of. Finally, considering that Aekold's power set has earned him nicknames like "Chaos Spiky Disney Princess", it'd be a crying shame _not_ to use it.


	2. Chapter II

**Chapter II**

 **THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT.**

"The locker," I groaned. "That must be when I Triggered." I wasn't much of a cape nerd, but it was almost impossible to avoid picking up some of the parahuman lingo through cultural osmosis. Heck, it was even theoretically possible I might have learned something in World Studies class at school, in between bouts of Emma's cronies messing with me, and Mr. Gladly being too busy fawning over his favourite students instead of, y'know, actually _teaching_.

The sword – Windblade, it'd called itself – didn't seem too impressed with my grasp of my new life as a cape, though.

"Trigger?" It sighed. "Sweetie, I'm a _sword_. Crossbows and those Dwarven flintlock pistols have triggers; swords have hilts, or handles. Sheesh, get a grip."

I sputtered, shocked at getting snarked at by a sentient piece of cutlery. Although, everyone else seemed content to walk all over me; why should a giant carving knife be any different? "I meant, a Trigger Event! The locker was filled with... _filth_ , and crawling bugs, and I was trapped in there for ages! It'd be enough to traumatize anybody!"

The Windblade hummed as it considered this. "Are you sure it wasn't a pagan sacrifice of human blood, offered up to an elder deity of darkness and strife? 'Cause I saw the inside of that locker, and there was plenty of red in there that didn't come out of a spray can. Considering the amount of graffiti in your school, that's really saying something."

I crinkled my nose at those mental images. "No! Also, _eww!_ Gross! That was a bunch of used tampons, and... And definitely not a human sacrifice!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that," the Windblade chuckled. "Dad taught me all about organized religions, and even more about _dis_ -organized religions. Trust me, I know a human sacrifice when I see one." The sword seemed to notice the quizzical look I was giving it. "...What? Something on my pommel?"

"No, it's just... You have a dad?" It seemed an odd choice of words. Swords were forged, not born, surely? Then again, where did baby talking swords come from? I thought this 'Windblade' was some sort of product of my power; wouldn't that make me its mother?

...Oh, _ick._ One more mental image that needed to be deleted.

The sword answered in a cheerful tone. "Yeah, I call him 'Dad', but that's just for lack of a better word. In any case, speaking of human sacrifice, Dad's sister-brother would disagree with you on that topic."

Wow, the topic changes were going back and forth and sideways, weren't they? "Uh, okay? How so?" ...Wait, 'sister-brother'? Should I ask about that? Did I even want to know?

"Well, my aunt-uncle Slanny has a saying about situations like this one," the sword explained. "They always tell me: 'Windblade,' they say, 'Keep this little secret in mind: Really gross blood sacrifices are the best kind of blood sacrifices'."

"That's... lovely," I frowned. "Sounds like being a creepy weirdo runs in the family for you guys, huh?"

The Windblade wriggled in my hand, shaking its skull. "Hey, I'm not as bad as my aunt-uncle! I never use 'tentacle sex' and 'stab wounds' in the same sentence." It paused for a second. "Except for just now, I guess."

I shuddered. "...You know what? I really don't think I'll need your help to become a hero. Cutting up villains is a bit too 'vigilante' for my tastes."

"Oh, _ree-hee-hee-heally?_ " Despite its lack of facial features, the Windblade was somehow able to convey the impression of a smirk. "Are you saying that using a big, sharp sword like _moi_ would be too... _Edgy?_

"Stop it!" I snarled. "I just meant that I'm not that kind of Cape!"

"Well, you're not going to intimidate any of your enemies, if you keep whining like _that_ ," said the sword.

"I'm not whining!" I bellowed, gripping the Windblade's hilt hard, until I realized that oversized carving knives likely weren't all that throttleable.

"Ooh, _loud-pitched_ whining, is it? Hardly an improvement, if you..." The Windblade's voice faltered. "Wait... Wait-wait-wait-wait _wait_. Back up a bit."

"With pleasure!" I started dragging the huge sword back towards the tangle of broken crates and newly-sprouted branches where I'd pulled it free.

"No, no _that!_ What you just said, a moment ago," the Windblade babbled. "Say it again!"

I frowned. "Uh... 'With pleasure'?"

"Before that!"

"Erm... 'I don't need your help to...'?"

" _After_ that!"

I sighed, shaking my head as I tried to recall the train wreck of a conversation. "Um... 'I'm not that kind of Cape'?"

" _Cape!_ " Windblade squealed. "Oh, sweetie-pie, of _course_ you can have a cape! Grumpy old Aekold, my previous partner, he never wanted to wear a cape, said it would just give opponents something to grab onto in a fight, or get tangled up with my scabbard-"

I stared at the giant gossipy cutlery. "...Huh?"

"...So Aekold was happy to just waltz around with his banner pole strapped to his back, until one day, a Daemonette asked him: 'Are you the army standard bearer, or are you just happy to see me?', and then-"

I let go of the sword's hilt and glared at it, watching it drop to the floor with a loud clang. I stood up straight, rubbing my arms and stretching my spine in an attempt to ease out the aches and pains I'd gotten from hauling around all that heavy metal. "You are a _nuisance!_ " I hissed.

The Windblade cooed. "Aww, you flatterer, you! My infernal spirit has been summoned and bound for so long, I'm really more of an _old_ séance, ha-ha! But it's sweet of you to say so, it really is."

"...Whatever." I sighed, turning on my heel and wandering away. "Bye."

"...Uh, champ? You forgot something," the sword called out. "Me!"

I looked back over my shoulder and waved my arms. "Listen, I'm not calling you overweight or anything, but... What do you expect me to do, exactly? Drag you around in an old shopping trolley, like a heavily armed bag lady? I can't carry you! In case you hadn't noticed, my arms are skinny enough to make noodles look beefy, in comparison!"

The Windblade snorted. "You-"

I narrowed my eyes and jabbed a threatening finger at the sword. "If the next words out of you are 'beef' and 'ramen', then so help me...!"

"Oh, puh- _lease_ ," the sword huffed. "Gimme some credit, here. I can think of much better noodle puns than _that_."

"Uh-huh." I started walking again. "Sure."

"I _was_ going to tell you about how you can get strong enough to carry a whole supermarket full of shopping trolleys, if you wanted..." Windblade called after me, trying to shout nonchalantly. "...Buuut I guess you're not interested."

I stopped walking. Holding up my hands, I scrutinized the unmarred skin. When I'd yanked the sword free, earlier, I'd ended up prat-falling my way into a heap of thistles, and stinging nettles, and busted wooden crates rife with rusty nails. My hoodie had protected me from some of it, but my hands and my face had still ended up with plenty of painful welts and deep scratches.

Those injuries had only lasted a few seconds, before they started healing in front of me, practically vanishing as I watched. Evidently, I really did have some kind of regeneration-style Brute power, but... It wouldn't be too shabby to have a punching-Nazis-thru-moderately-thick-walls style Brute power, as well. What could it hurt to try?

...Normally, if you jinx yourself with an unfortunately phrased rhetorical question like that, you'd expect the answer to be: "a _lot_ ". As it happened, the Windblade's strength-boosting technique wasn't painful, so much as... Unsettling? Weird? Creepy?

When it kicked in, it was like... It was like the _opposite_ of riding a bicycle. Even on a quiet day, you'd feel a resistance from the air friction, especially when you were rolling downhill quickly. If it was a windy day, and you had the wind blowing in your face when you rode around on your bike, the hindering effect only got more pronounced, as the air pushing against you slowed you down.

But the Windblade's strength boost was like the opposite of all that. When I followed the sword's instructions and seized it by the hilt, there was a sudden rush of air, whipping around my body. The winds gently nudged my arms and the massive weapon I was struggling to lift. Bit by bit, the Windblade felt lighter and lighter, until I finally held it aloft in one hand. I took a few cautious practice swings, and the helpful breezes immediately adapted, making my movements easier.

If Armsmaster, or some other highly skilled Tinker, ever decided to construct an invisible suit of power armor with a built-in exoskeleton, which supported the motions of their limbs with transparent servo motors or whatever... I'd imagine it'd be a lot like this. It didn't make me feel stronger, so much as it made everything feel _less heavy_.

Now that I was actually holding the sword, and it wasn't either: A) flying around chasing me at high speed, narrowly missing my head, or: B) covered in rapidly growing vines, I took the opportunity to inspect it more closely.

The first impression anyone would get from this sword was its size. Frankly, it was _huge_. Even a big burly weightlifter with muscles on top of their muscles would most likely still need to use both hands to wield it. Although it'd given me some sort of enhancement with those weird wind manipulations, they didn't make me feel any stronger, but being able to lift this hulking lump of metal, let alone swing it, was testament to their effectiveness. Still, I would probably never be able to land the first strike in any kind of sword-fight with it.

Come to think of it... That whole "making winds spring up out of nowhere" business, wouldn't that have to be some sort of aerokinesis? (Unless talking swords had functioning digestive systems, and a great fondness for beans... Just my luck, with a power that made plants grow at a mind-boggling rate, everywhere I went. The Windblade would always have plenty of fuel for its amazing powers of flatulence.)

Wasn't there a local villain, one of the members of the Empire Eighty-Eight, who had an aerokinetic power? Stormtiger, probably... Could he boost his strength like the sword had done to me, with his own aerokinesis? More importantly, could the Windblade shoot powerful ranged attacks made of pressurized air, like the Blaster power I seemed to remember Stormtiger having?

Food for thought... Except, I wasn't planning on keeping the sword, so: Food for somebody else's thoughts. Probably more beans.

Another word that described the weapon quite well was 'spiky'. The blade had what was technically a serrated edge near the hilt, above a decorative skull that was affixed where the blade met the hilt, and which appeared to do the talking. Mind you, those saw-toothed notches weren't just short little barbs that might tear an opponent's flesh into gruesome bloody bits, but big broad spikes – almost like spearheads in their own right, given the overall size of the weapon. The sword also had some sort of fire theme going on; there was a flame design on several parts, including the cross-guard bar thingy between the blade and the hilt.

Okay, so maybe I did need to expand my sword-related vocabulary, learn the proper stabbological terminology. But, that was only an issue if I was going to be a swordsman. Swords-woman. Swords-girl? Anyway, moot point, 'cause I wasn't going to keep the talking cutlery. End of discussion.

At the end of the hilt, opposite the blade, was the... pommel? I was pretty sure that was the correct term for the counterweight bit on the end. I'd learned a couple of terrible 'pummel a guy with the pommel' puns, that also worked as mnemonics to remember the word, back when Mom was... Anyway. The sword had a pommel, kinda ostentatious and jewel-encrusted. It was large and gaudy, but it didn't look quite big and heavy enough to be able to properly balance the absurdly oversized blade. Still, I wasn't sure how to test that, and since I'd decided not to keep it, the pommel would be somebody else's problem.

"Ain'tcha gonna test how strong you are, now?" The Windblade asked. "Hey, that load-bearing wall is looking at you funny... I think it's disrespecting you! You should chop it in half!"

I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a loud, drawn-out growling noise. I looked down at myself, and blushed a little.

"Whoa! Sounds like someone's tummy is being sassy, too," said the sword. "Lunch break, people! Everybody, take ten!"

"I didn't bring my packed lunch with me, remember?" I grumbled, rubbing my aching stomach. Now that I was paying attention to it, I could feel that I was getting pretty dang hungry. "I was just a teensy bit busy, earlier, escaping Winslow when it drowned in greenery and high-speed plant growths, and then fleeing for my life when a huge flying machete started chasing me!"

The sword wriggled in my hand, like it was twisting from side to side, looking around the warehouse. "Mmm... A- _ha!_ How about _those_ things? They look edible!"

I glanced in the direction the blade was pointing.

Amongst the sprouting foliage lay the discarded remains of what had likely once been a BLT sandwich, bought at a gas station or a cheap super market deli corner. Juicy red tomatoes ballooned obscenely, all over the dark green plants bursting out of the greasy old takeaway wrapping paper. Stalks of wheat were poking out of the uneaten bread crusts. Plump heads of fresh lettuce bloomed from cracks in the floor, almost close enough to nudge against my foot.

Hesitantly, I reached out and plucked a tomato. It was plump, and ripe, and bright glossy red. It looked absolutely delicious. "You know... I can't help but remember the theological discussion we had earlier. Makes you think, doesn't it? A mysterious, dangerous thing appears and strikes up a conversation with an impressionable young woman. Then, the serpent... Sorry, the _sword_ tries to convince said maiden that she should go ahead and eat a tasty-looking bit of horticultural produce." I turned the tomato over in my hand, admiring the sheen of its crimson skin. "Hilarity - as the ancient saying goes - ensues."

"Ooh! Good point, I hadn't even thought of it that way," said the Windblade.

"Befidef, there'f all fortf a' toxic garbage scatter'd 'round thif area, I'm fure the foil muft be poif'nouf," I said. "Thefe tomatoef could prolly kill an el'phant."

The sword wobbled in my hand, nodding seriously. "Uh-huh, sure... Don't talk with your mouth full, dearie."

"Mm-hmm," I hummed, chewing and swallowing. "They taste _amazing_ , though!" I plucked a third tomato, and a fourth, and took another big bite, juice trickling down my chin.

"Y'know, I think you might be able to use those broad leaves over there as napkins," said the Windblade. "Let's leave that whole 'Catsup for the Catsup God' angle to Uncle Kay, alright?"

I reached over to tear off one of the large leaves that the Windblade had pointed out, and then froze. A thought sprang to mind, and it wasn't a particularly pleasant one.

"Hold on," I said, glancing around at the indoor wilderness. "That discarded sandwich wrapper has 'BLT' written on the side... The lettuce is over there, and the tomatoes are heading down my esophagus."

The sword didn't seem particularly alarmed by this revelation. "Yeah? So?"

"That only accounts for the L and the T! Even though gas station takeaway rarely has more than a passing resemblance to actual _food_ , I doubt they'd go so far as to completely omit the B," I explained, starting to feel a little anxious. "So... _What happened to the bacon?_ "

The Windblade and I stared at each other in silence. Before either of us could speak up again, the warehouse reverberated with an ear-splitting howl.

The echoing bellow shook the building. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Countless twigs and branches trembled, leaves rustling against one another with a sound like the shaky knees of a terrified cartoon character.

Or perhaps I was just projecting. My own knees weren't exactly rock steady, right now.

There was something about the harmonics of that loud, angry grunt which just bypassed rational thought, went straight for whatever part of the brain handled fight-or-flight responses, and started poking the 'flight' button. Much like a meowing kitten might imply the existence of roaring lions, one could extrapolate from the gentle oinking of little pink piglets to form a mental image of the creature that must have made this noise.

I began backing away. Snuffling and crashing noises could be heard coming from deeper within the undergrowth, but heading towards me.

"Sounds like _this_ little piggy stayed home," the Windblade whispered. "And it's ready to _hog someone up_."

 **THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT.**

A/N: Some replies to comments and reviews:

 **ROTH963:** Greener than a weed-choked arboretum! More escalating than a staircase! Able to leap tall Nazis in a single sword-swing! (Or lop, depending on how aggressive she's feeling. If it's Alabaster, he can easily recover any lost body parts, anyway.)

 **Char-Nobyl:** Slashing damage rather than bludgeoning, but... Yeah, you've got a point. It's basically a sassy, talkative Mjolnir.

 **The_Shameful:** So, the Windblade would sound like a mix between Deadpool and Detective Pikachu? Neat! (Also, suitably sanity-warping.)

 **Alkard:** True, a Lankhmar reference would have been more fitting than a Zelda reference, at least if it had been a story about Skaven.

 **StrangerDanger** , **Zernach:** If Nurgle's divine portfolio includes stasis (as you say, he's more about enduring hardship than actively changing things), then Alexandria could be presented as one of Grampa Nurgle's favorites - or what about the Siberian? Might cast a slightly different light on her interactions with Bonesaw...

 **Ian Von Doom:** "Spiky harem protagonist", snerk. That comment is so good, I'm gonna go ahead and steal it as a summary for this story. Yoink, and thanks!

 **Grim Troll:** Grudge match: Simurgh vs. Lord (or Lady) of Change? (There's only room for ONE avian-themed psychic harbinger of the Apocalypse on this planet...)

 **Rakaziel:** True, the Windblade probably seems a bit cartoonish. Obfuscating silliness, perhaps?


End file.
